


Night-time Visitors

by Shachaai



Series: Vampire AU [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Other, Priests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis brings Arthur a mission. Arthur is less than pleased at how the vampire chooses to deliver it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night-time Visitors

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Unfinished Vampire AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/9192) by http://cattleya-nine.sakura.ne.jp/aph/etc2/clap-v01.html. 



> Er. Sorta vaguely based on [the comic](http://losthitsu.tumblr.com/post/9930945831/unfinished-vampire-au-translation) that losthitsu kindly translated, but it’s chronologically set before it. NSFW in the sense that there’s grappling, a half-naked man, and various interesting threats made to a certain vampire’s life, limbs and livelihood. ~~If it helps, I don’t know what this is either?~~

_ _ The vampire comes as the crescent moon starts its descent for the night, arriving seemingly from nowhere to alight on the sill of one of the inn’s many dark windows. They crouch down on their haunches there to look through the glass - with absolutely _no_ regard to the fact that they're standing one storey up and have nothing beneath their heels but air. There’s a distracting heartbeat behind the leaded window-pane, steady and slow – and the vampire reaches out to it with one hand, lengthens one of the nails to slip in the too-wide joining of the casement window and lift the hook inside from its catch. The window swings open, and the vampire slips inside.

It’s a fairly regular inn room inside, Spartan, but comfortable with the clutter of life – a dark-stained coat on the hook on the door, papers spread over the table covered in (a particularly incomprehensible) human scrawl, shoes by the foot of the single occupied bed. Tousled fair hair spreads out in a short halo over the pillows, a bird’s nest fringe and one nose all that pokes out from underneath the covers, skin flushed with sleep. 

The source of the heartbeat – a mortal, so slim even buried under his blankets, curled up and lax on his side. It's easy to lean over to where his dun-gold hair gives way to soft flesh just under the edge of the sheets (so easily to pull back), to plant pale hands either side of the sleeper’s head and gently lean down, down, _d-_

Even when muffled by blankets, the sound of a gun cocking is loud in the otherwise silent night.

The sound it makes when it _goes off_ is even louder, the bullet shooting straight up through the sheets, the vampire’s chest and embedding itself in the ceiling above like a glimmer of trapped moonlight.

…Or it _would_ have done, had the vampire not moved already, gone before the gun’s fire and on the other side of the room, all sharp wary eyes and a lazy smile,m cat's crouch. The bullet does leave a rather nice hole in the ceiling, though.

“Your aim’s getting better,” the vampire blithely informs his assaulter, straightening and brushing down his fine clothes as the sleeper – never actually asleep since the moment the vampire entered the room – kicks back his sheets to slide long legs around to place his feet on the floor. Long _bare_ legs – _some_ one had decided to sleep in only a loose white nightshirt again, and his audience certainly isn’t complaining. Perhaps there is a God. “I approve - the last time you tried that trick, mon cher, you actually nicked my arm. It’s always nice to know we can play-fight and I’m not going to come away with copious bleeding injuries.”

“Who’s playing?” is the abrupt response, and green eyes – _oh –_ green eyes all but _glow_ in the dark. They’re as startling as they were the first time the vampire saw them (but now, they's so infinitely less sweet), set in the fae-sharp face of one Arthur Kirkland, somewhat (notoriously) grumpy priest and cleric of the Most Holy and Catholic Church of Rome, righter of wrongs, saver of souls, slayer of rogue vampires and kicker of arses when woken before he’s had his standard six hours of beauty sleep. Charming company, all in all, if a little suicidal in choice for a vampire’s bosom confidante. (Riling him up is a hobby.) “I _missed._ ”

“Whatever happened to the noble philosophy of love towards ‘all things great and small’?” The vampire backs up a step when Arthur moves forward – really, it’s the only intelligent option when _this_ particular priest wears death in his eyes. The gun pointed at the vampire’s head is quite convincing too.

Arthur just snorts at the question, and keeps walking forward. “Don’t kid yourself, Francis – you’re nothing but a glorified leech.”

The vampire ( _Francis_ ) keeps moving backwards and away – slowly, but eventually his spine meets one of the room’s four walls, so cold and so, _so_ unfeeling. “Ah, but still a _thing -_ ” Arthur comes closer still, and aims the barrel deliberately between Francis’ eyes. ( _Always_ with the face. Arthur really has something against Francis’ face; it’s dreadful.) “You realise that the _last_ time I was held at gunpoint like this by scantily-clad persons – of origins you’d probably gasp and condemn, but that’s by the by, and, you know, they kept the most _delightful_ little kitchen?You can always tell a lot about a person by the state of their kitchen. Well, not that _you’d_ know, but people in general ought to know – and _yes_ , you know, the last time I was in this sort of situation I at least had the consolation of _sex_ afterwards to look forward to, oui?”

“God loves a trier,” Arthur informs him, unwavering. Arthur has a remarkable amount of derring-do for a man in nothing but what is basically an oversized shirt – it’d be _adorable_ if only he were less pissy about it. (Nightshirts give easy access, after all.) “Unfortunately for _you_ , frog, _I_ do not. So do be a dear, and tell me how the _fuck_ it is you manage to keep on getting past all my wards?”

“There were wards?” Francis asks – and _ducks,_ diving down into a crouch just as Arthur fires once more, this time leaving a bullet-hole in the wall. Francis just looks up at his priest, mildly aggrieved – all this shooting is doing nothing for his eardrums. _Wards,_ honestly. (Arthur has yet to learn curiosity usually not only kills the cat – it slowly eviscerates the kitty and then uses the kitty’s intestines to throttle the owner as well.) “I _sincerely_ hope the innkeeper charges you for damages, mon chéri. Also, I can see up your nightshirt.”

Predictably, Arthur _squawks,_ stumbling back and yanking down the edge of his sleepwear. His grip loosens on his gun as he does so and Francis takes the opportunity to snatch the weapon from Arthur’s hands, roll when Arthur makes a grab for it and send the gun sliding, skittering, across the floor and under the room’s bed, out of the way. Arthur lunges for it and Francis snags his ankle – Arthur goes crashing down belly-first and Francis goes after him, pressing his knee into the small of Arthur’s back and leaning his weight into it to keep the priest on his stomach. Arthur snarls and tries to slip out from under the knee anyway, so Francis swings his leg over to the other side of Arthur’s narrow waist, casually straddling the back of his companion’s thighs and holding tight to the less-than-agreeable body bucking beneath. 

_ Honestly _ , the things Arthur makes him do.

Arthur pulls away from clawing at Francis’ knees to brace his hands underneath his chest and push _up –_ Francis just leans forward quickly in response, splaying one hand between Arthur’s spread shoulder-blades (really, so _tense_ ) and shoving _down,_ trapping Arthur’s hands beneath his own heartbeat-hammered ribcage and driving all the breath out of his human in one go. Arthur drops his head to the floor, and is finally still.

(But never compliant.)

“Frog, _get your hand off of my arse.”_

_ Most  _ of the breath, anyway; there’s just enough left for Arthur to snarl low in the back of his throat, a fearsome sound that reverberates through fragile flesh and blood and bones when Francis lingers a moment or so longer than is good for his lifespan over the rather lovely curve which Arthur’s nightshirt has ridden up in all his wriggling to expose. 

_ “Arthur, _ ” Francis starts, at his most placatory.

_ “Get your hand off of my arse or I swear to Almighty  _ God _I will tear every last pointy tooth from your thick-skulled, bat-brained, devil-spawned_ head _and_ shove it up your arsehole.”

Francis conscientiously removes his hand from Arthur’s behind, placing it beside the other one on Arthur’s shoulder instead, letting his weight fall down on the other’s back to mimic Arthur’s (less willingly chosen) position. Nuzzles into the crook of Arthur’s neck where the nightshirt’s collar dips down to pale skin and ignores how Arthur shies away instinctively from the feather-light scrape of sharp teeth. Survival instinct – it’s almost a blessing for Francis to see, considering how reckless Arthur can be when performing his duty. (How recklessly feisty Arthur always is as an adult, rough and fierce and _alive._ It’s rather hard to repay a hefty blood-debt to someone determinedly self-sufficient and prone to actions usually only _just_ on the safer side of suicidal.) “Such _language,_ mon cher _;_ your superiors must be eternally aghast.”

“I tried being nice. It made me want to shoot people more.” Francis chuckles at the admission – he can easily believe it -, absently playing with the looser skin at the nape of his oh-so-gracious host’s neck, catching it gently between teeth and lips before releasing it once more. Half-nip, half-kiss – and Arthur sighs, again, all instinct, his heartbeat slowing again, dropping from the adrenaline rush of activity to a sleepier pace echoed in the relaxing of his muscles. (Thankfully, he seems to have forgotten all about his breached wards.) It’s not total relaxation, but the floor is probably cold. “Kindly stop _chewing_ on me, if you would. You’re getting frog-drool all over me.”

Francis spreads his weight over him further, a blanket to Arthur’s pillow, and presses his mouth to murmur in the soft hollow behind his priest’s ear. “And if I’m _hungry_ , mon angelot?”

Arthur shifts a little beneath him, flexing his back. Francis approves. “… _Are_ you hungry?”

_ “Non. _ ” Francis has travelled a long way from his choice of abode during the day to arrive at the Spanish inn Arthur has currently sent up base in (Spain is rich and lively even under darkness, and there are beautiful girls and boys all too happy to dance with an eternally youthful face) – but he had fed the week before from the other, drinking from the whisper-thin skin at Arthur’s wrist one dwindling evening in southern France as the stars had picked out their places in the sky and Arthur had drifted softly to sleep against Francis' collarbone. He’d left after laving the wounds clean and bandaging them in white – called north by voices on the wind and inside his head. In the morning, Arthur had gone south. 

It’s best to take sparingly from Arthur – the idiot seems too keen on losing his blood in fights elsewhere to offer too much of it on too regular a basis to his attached vampire. (Francis would take from elsewhere if he could – but a blood-debt has responsibilities both ways.) 

“I have a mission for you.”

“Let me up,” Arthur says abruptly, tense and all business – and Francis inwardly laments, complaining aloud, lingering heavily and protesting at losing his perch. He raises himself up though, reluctantly and eventually, stepping back so Arthur may rub life back into his numb hands and wrap himself in one of the bed’s blankets, a homespun cocoon. 

Francis can _never_ remember looking or being quite as ridiculous as Arthur somehow manages to do or be at least once every time Francis shares his company – not even in the days before Francis Turned. It seems to be less a human thing and more an _Arthur_ thing, a humanely Arthur thing, oddities all fitted together in a tumbling jumble of hopes and ideals and frustrations, bullets being fired at poor undeserving persons’ heads. It suits him though, Arthur, the _petit_ mismatch of a person, and though he’s but a blink in Francis’ eternity it’s an _interesting_ blink _,_ a sight that comes once a hundred lifetimes and sears vivid images in his brain.

“Tell me about the mission,” Arthur says, curled up warm in his blanket on his bed and watching Francis with his green-grass eyes.

Francis takes a seat beside him on the bed. (And hogs the comfort of the pillow. Arthur eyes him but doesn’t kick him, and Francis marks it as progress.) “It’s in Brandenburg.”

“…Prussia.”

“Prussia,” Francis agrees. They don't particularly like Prussia.  


Arthur makes a face, and pulls his blankets up further. “How’s your German?"


End file.
